I'm a dildo for you baby,
something to put between your legs
like a fingerlickin' machine at a fried-chicken
franchise, always busy, always singing,
la-la-la-la-la and trying hard to knock
the little bald man out of his
boat (exhausted fingers tangled

in sweat-drenched hair,
a vampires caress turned on it's head.
Here is truth: to give is not always to share.)

Yet, December will remind you of how the lilies
of Summer hung limp and sweet-scented on those warm, venusian nights

and a timeless ardor lay smooth and shiny over
everything, thick and sensual and holy as jesus
and his angels

while spectral birds gathered and shook their wings against the sky
and the jealous wind

snatched it all away
in the twinkling of an eye...

I'm a dildo for you baby,
I'm a dildo.


© W.G. Myers